


Stay

by katiebuttercup



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, His Last Vow, I'm not great at smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 23:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebuttercup/pseuds/katiebuttercup
Summary: Sherlock didn't think *he'd* been in any danger when he propositioned Molly, but he's only just realising how much trouble he can get into





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Set within the months were john and Mary were estranged

BBC owns it all 

"Stay!" It comes out as a puff of laughter as Molly catches her breath in the crook of his shoulder. He runs a hand up her spine luxuriating in the slick skin sliding beneath his palm underneath her blouse.

He hadn't known sex could be fun.

His experiences as a teen and young man were imeshed in his drug use. More recently with the woman it had been a contest, pleasurable yes, oh so much, with the edge of pain teasing him but it had been almost a battle. 

He knows he's said the wrong thing because Molly gets very still, her breathing still unsteady. She shifts minutely and his cock twitches. He's ready for her again. His body always responds to her-there is never enough sensory data, not enough skin to touch or enough times to hear her cry his name. 

He should have been bored by now, but he wasn't. He craved more and more each time and yet satisfaction remained aloof. 

"Sherlock...."

His hand strays lower, gathering the sweat at the small of her back before settling on her hip.

"It's your day off," Sherlock continues, arching his hips and Molly's body shudders as she instinctively moves with him his cock hardening in the velvet heat of her cunt. She's burning and Sherlock can only lay back and enjoy it. 

Sherlock makes a choked sound as her hips move above him, his hands tightening on her hips. 

"Fuck!" Sherlock bites out, pleasure blurring the edges of his coherent thoughts. 

"Fuck yes! Ride me!" 

Molly braces her hands against his chest, rotating her hips in a way that Sherlock was pretty sure was magic. 

She feels so good, deliciously tight and wet and the feel of her inner muscles clenching around him rhymically draws his pleasure through him at break neck speed. 

Arousal makes him brave and with one powerful thrust he rolls them so that he is on top of her breaking one of their unspoken rules. Molly was always on top. Always. 

Whatever Molly is planning to say is lost as he thrusts into her, controlling the pace of their lovemaking. There is only the sound of their ragged breathing, the sound of slick skin sliding together.

He's chasing oblivion and he's so close, he can feel Molly is too, the rosy blush covering what he can see of her skin-she's still wearing most of her clothes and the way her muscles clench around him. 

Molly arches her back against her the mattress, pressing close to Sherlock's chest. 

Every pleasure centre in his body screams, logic stripped away and all there is is Molly and him and the pleasure they are giving each other. 

Molly's legs wrap around him and the new angle steals the breath out of both of them he reaches between them, finding Molly's clit with unnerving accuracy through her slippery folds rolling the bundle of nerves until Molly lets out a keening wail that shudders up Sherlock's spine. 

She clenches once more, almost unbearably and then melts into his arms as she comes. A moment later Sherlock follows her over the edge, white light blinding him for a second before he slumps on top of her. 

Her fingers slide through his damp curls and Sherlock turns his head to encourage the touch. 

But all to soon, Molly's hand leaves his hair and is gently pushing him off her. He slumps onto the bed as Molly wriggles out of the tangle of limbs, sliding across the bed and standing, wriggling her hips to settle her skirt properly and smoothing down her blouse. She looks deliciously rumpled. 

It had taken an innocent trick to get her into his bed today -since they had started this thing a handspan of months before, the night he had been readmitted to hospital after Mary's purposefully missed shot. Being with Molly had helped him cope with the fallout of the Watson's relationship crumbling. 

Sherlock didn't feel bad although he should-they had had sex in various places-and nearly everywhere at Baker Street (except John's bedroom. And his)

The bedroom was too intimate. Too personal. 

Sherlock had started this as an experiment and now it was biting him in the proverbial. 

Because the parameters of the experiment had changed. He found himself wanting more-the sex although spectacular was not enough. He was greedy, always had been. Sherlock stares at the ceiling trying to calm his breathing. 

He wanted Molly to stay. 

He draws his fingers over his chest mainly for something to do. 

The pinprick pain of his nails against his skin helped focus him. 

"Why not stay? You don't have to be anywhere. I can order Chinese."

Molly feeezes in the motion of retying her ponytail. She looks like a deer in the headlights whatever pleasure he had given her was chased away. 

"Sherlock..." she fiddles with the buttons of her cardigan. He remembers the feel of those tiny buttons against his bare chest.

"It's just dinner," Sherlock says. He tries and fails for uncaring notchalance. 

"I don't...its a bad idea," Molly says helplessly. 

Everyone tells him Molly is in love with him, her actions tell him the same thing and yet when he offers more-not exactly what she wants but more than he ever considered giving someone else she refuses him.

It's infuriating. 

He's expected a fallout, that Molly would invariably want more-that she would become clingy and needy and want to attach labels to this when he was strictly chasing pleasure when his world had darkened. Hadn't John and Mary proved that?

But never once had he thought that it would be him who craved more, he who would reach first and let go last. Perhaps it was because they were in his bedroom and all the attached intimacy people attached to it. 

"Molly..."

"Look I know that everything is awful right now," Molly says, "and we're all looking for something semi good in this mess but I don't want to pretend. I don't want you to pretend. I'm done telling myself fairy tales,"

Molly doesn't know about Mary, about the real reason she and John are no longer talking. Sherlock hates lying to her but it's not his secret to tell. 

There is something unbearably soft in her eyes, something that speaks to Sherlock on a level that is instinctive, bypassing logic completely. It's the same instinct that makes him crave her body. 

The door shuts behind her. It's not the first time an experiment has blown up in his face but it's the first time in many years Sherlock is unsure what to do with the results. The first time in years his logic has failed him so spectacularly. 

He's in trouble, he realises. He just doesn't know how deep.


End file.
